


Surrender

by insignem



Series: Siege/Surrender [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 1099 CE, Andy/Quynh/Lykon may decide to meddle a little bit, Crusades, Joe and Nicky just need a little prodding that's all, M/M, Middle Ages, Pre-Canon, Religion, War, background Andy/Quynh/Lykon, joe and nicky fall in love, the rating may go up, there will be copious references to the Trojan War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insignem/pseuds/insignem
Summary: Andromache sees the dream again, so vivid she wants to press a hand to her gut and make sure her insides are still there. Sees two faces, each through the eyes of the other; feels the rage and hatred in duplicate.“There are two of them.”In which Yusuf and Nicolo just need a little help as they find their way to falling in love with each other.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Siege/Surrender [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863241
Comments: 72
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to [Siege](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217029). This was originally going to be one part, but it was becoming far longer than I expected, so I’m breaking it into chapters. I also slightly adjusted how long it takes for the others to find them. This is the story of how Yusuf and Nicolo find their way to falling in love with each other – there are a million versions of this story, many already written beautifully by others, some living in my head, but this is the one I decided to write.
> 
> This involves some blurring of the movie/comic timelines – i.e., Noriko is Quynh, but Andy found Lykon first, and Lykon doesn’t die until the Renaissance – thus would still be with them when they find Nicky and Joe. I just want more Lykon!  
> I imagine Andromache is lighter back then, not quite as jaded – she has the people she loves, fighting by her side; she hasn’t lost them yet. 
> 
> I have done quite a bit of research, but I am no expert on the Middle Ages – I studied Classics, so I know a hell of a lot more about the Mediterranean world a millennia or two earlier. Forgive me for the self-indulgent classics references that will crop up later, and forgive me for any historical inaccuracies. I have tried to render references to history, religion, and attitudes towards two men falling in love respectfully and in a way that feels true to the story, but cannot presume to know what life would have been truly like for them in the 11th century. For that reason, I've chosen to keep some things vague. I’m grateful to those who have been putting together resources on tumblr and elsewhere, and happy to be corrected where I may have erred.

_Two sets of eyes, both blazing with fury. Guts spilled on a battlefield. A sword run through a heart. Two bodies, falling into the dust beside each other. Two sets of eyes, falling shut._

Andromache bolts awake into the darkness of the Georgian night. She hears Lykon and Quynh do the same, the three of them grabbing for each other and for weapons in the blackness. The heft of her labrys in hand settles her, and as she pauses to assess, she hears nothing but their panting breaths.

Lykon speaks first, his voice soft and melodic in his native Greek. “It was just a dream, I think.”

Andromache has been speaking Greek for millennia – has taken for her own name that which the Greeks had called her; the name given to her at birth lost from a long-forgotten tongue – but she likes hearing it best in Lykon’s gentle tones.

She frowns, the images from the dream flashing before her. “I saw a battlefield. I was there. You saw it too?” 

Lykon murmurs his agreement, and she hears Quynh’s soft intake of breath in the calm night air. “There’s another one?”

Andromache sees the dream again, so vivid she wants to press a hand to her gut and make sure her insides are still there. Sees two faces, each through the eyes of the other; feels the rage and hatred in duplicate.

“There are two of them.”

*

Andromache tries to fall back asleep – the others had, after agreeing to talk further on the matter in the morning – but she can’t do so as easily. It had been just her, for so long. Thousands of years before she began to dream of Quynh, when she didn’t even know what it meant to have such dreams. Centuries passed until Lykon came along. Then another near millennia and a half with no new immortals – and now two, at once? _Why?_

She wishes, not for the first time, that she knew more about this strange gift of theirs.

*

She’s jolted awake again just before dawn, this time with phantom stab wounds, brutal in their ferocity. Traces of fear and fury and confusion cloud her mind as they quietly pack up their camp.

“Are they going to keep killing each other, do you think?” Quynh asks, her laughter breaking through Andromache’s furrowed concentration.

She scoffs a small laugh of her own. “I hope not. We won’t sleep peacefully until they do.”

Lykon grins beside them. “They’ll figure it out – there’s no way they’ll be stubborn enough to keep this up. Why keep killing a man you cannot kill?”

Andromache grimaces. “Did you see what they wear? Where they are?”

Lykon shakes his head. Quynh looks thoughtful. “I saw the collapsing walls of a city. One of the men wears a red cross on his chest.”

She draws in breath sharply, as recognition sets in. “Jerusalem?”

Andromache nods. “It appears to have fallen to the Christians.”

They have thus far chosen to steer clear of the conflict in the Holy Lands – staying north and occupying themselves instead with the small skirmishes between the Georgians and the Seljuks – biding their time to see if things would turn in a direction that catches their attention. Andromache supposes that this qualifies.

“Pack up, guys. Time to see what all the fuss is about.”

*

They ride for Jerusalem. It turns out Lykon had too much faith in the pragmatism of their new brothers – their sleep for the next few nights is punctuated by violent dreams and painful deaths. Even Quynh starts to grumble about it. “How have they not gotten tired by now?”

Andromache laughs. “You’re one to talk, Quynh; I can’t remember the last time you were tired.”

“Well, I am now!” Quynh hisses in the Vietnamese of her earlier life. “These two need to have some respect and let us get some sleep.”

Andromache, tired though she is, can’t hold it in her to be mad at the two men they ride to meet. The flashes of emotion she feels from them in the dreams remind her too much of her own pain, back at the beginning – the shock and terror, the desperation for anything to make sense again. They are clinging to their hatred of each other to ground themselves against the upending of their entire worldviews. Killing each other is solid and tangible. There’s a logic to it, despite the utter lack of logic to the outcome. She understands.

*

And finally, Lykon’s words come true. On the morning of the third day, they wake to a far more peaceful dream. _An offered hand. A wary truce. A soft conversation held in a shared tongue. A swell of emotion. Connection._

Quynh blinks awake beside Andromache, sleepy delight in her eyes as she grabs her hand and squeezes it. Lykon, curled at her back, laughs softly. He sounds happy as he mumbles, “Took them long enough.”

Andromache allows herself to bask fully in the love shared between the three of them. It took her millennia to find this family, and she is relieved to feel traces of kindness from their new brothers, after so much violence. “I heard their names,” she says. “Nicolo. And Yusuf.”

*

The first night, there’s tension. They’ve barely spoken – too exhausted to do much more than make their way from the carnage of Jerusalem to a safe place to camp for the night. They’ve salvaged weapons and clothing from the bodies of other soldiers who’d fallen into the ravine with them, but they need water. They need food. They need horses, but that’s for another day.

They separate, Yusuf to search for food and Nicolo for water. Away from the Christian, the quiet ease Yusuf had felt in his presence evaporates. As they’d scavenged what they could from the bodies, Christian and Muslim alike, the scent of burning flesh and faint din of screaming from the city had reached them. Yusuf had tried to push it away, but he finds he cannot any longer.

Dazed as the horror of the past few days settles into his bones – horror carried out in the name of Nicolo’s religion – he spots a rabbit in the brush. His arrow is swift and pierces the animal’s throat cleanly, but he recoils at the burst of red against its dust-brown fur. He sees Nicolo’s blank face, streaked with blood. Sees his own body, bleeding out in the sand. Sees the corpses of his fellow soldiers strewn about the battlefield. Falling to his knees, he vomits heavily into the dust. There’s very little to come back up, but he keeps retching, his stomach heaving as if trying to force its way out of him too.

At last, the convulsions ease, and he tries to muster up enough saliva to clear his mouth. He spits, then wipes at his lips and the tear tracks on his cheeks. He stands, unsteady, but with some level of ease restored. His body, at least, feels like his again.

He heads back to their camp, rabbit and dagger in hand. When he arrives, he sees Nicolo crouched over a small fire, coaxing it to life. Anger rises in his throat like bile. Yusuf tosses the rabbit at his feet, then throws himself onto the man, holding him to the ground with his body and pressing the dagger to his neck. His breath comes in harsh pants as he trembles in sorrow and fury. 

Nicolo stares up at him, his eyes – darker now in the weak firelight – unreadable. He doesn’t struggle. He just keeps his gaze locked on Yusuf’s, and Yusuf feels the rage bleed out of him. He sits up, letting the dagger slip from his grasp. He knows that slitting the Christian’s throat won’t accomplish anything. This close to him, he remembers the strange camaraderie he already feels for this man. Remembers the way he felt when Nicolo had said that maybe they were meant to stay together.

Yusuf pushes himself off the man, slumping into the dirt beside him. Nicolo graciously says nothing other than a quiet thanks as he takes the rabbit to prepare their meal.

They eat in silence, other than the barely audible prayer that Nicolo murmurs over the food. Yusuf has been in a state of impurity since the battle began. He has missed many prayers. Tomorrow, he will find water and make up what he has missed. Tonight, he presses his hands to the earth, purifies himself with the dust for his nighttime prayer. Allah will forgive him. The intention in his heart is good.

*

As they prepare for bed, they eye each other warily, each uncertain of falling asleep around the other. Nicolo can still feel the cool press of Yusuf’s blade against his throat, and though he understood the pain he saw in the man’s eyes, though he watched them as they softened, he doesn’t know that he can comfortably render himself defenseless around the man who was so recently his enemy.

He supposes, though, that he is not defenseless – not anymore. His body will not allow this man to harm him.

He places his sword down gently in the dust between them, then lays himself out on the cloak he had stolen. Yusuf does the same. They lie facing each other in silence, until their weariness wins out over caution. As Nicolo lets his exhausted mind drift to rest, he briefly wonders if he will wake to discover that this has all been a dream.

*

When he wakes, he finds Yusuf just blinking to consciousness across from him. Proof, perhaps, that this is not in fact a dream. His dreams, rather, were filled with the faces of three strangers: two women and a man, mounted on horseback, laughing and chatting with each other as they traveled. Their faces are vivid in his mind, as real to him as Yusuf’s had been before they ever fought each other.

He looks to Yusuf. Could it be? “Did you dream?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Dream…” Yusuf repeats, brow furrowed for a moment. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I saw people. Two women, a man. On horses.”

“Yes, yes,” Nicolo nods, excitement dawning. “I saw them too. As I saw you.”

Yusuf’s lingering sleepiness vanishes. “Do you think… You think they are like us?”

 _Like us_. His heart pounds to hear words linking them together so, this strange twist of fate that has made this Muslim man more alike to him than any on earth.

“I think they could be.” He’s eager as he considers the idea. “Perhaps our dreams show us to each other, so that we may find each other.”

Yusuf nods, pushing himself to a sitting position. His eyes – so dark, but not a cold dark; a warm, burning dark like the depths of the coals in the hearth – meet Nicolo’s searchingly. “Have you dreamed of them before?”  
  
“No,” Nicolo tells him, truthfully. For months, he has seen only Yusuf’s face in his head. “Only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a subtle shift from canon here (and in Siege) in that Joe and Nicky dreamed of each other before killing each other and becoming immortal; my understanding from the movie is that they begin to dream of each other after their first resurrection. The reason for this change - and for the contrast with the other three, where the dreaming follows canon rules - is that I like to think there's something special about Joe and Nicky discovering their immortality together; that they were made to find each other by whatever power grants them this ability. Just soulmate things ;)
> 
> I'm delighted that there are already tropes forming in the fics about how they meet each other and fall in love, and rest assured that this will have many of them.
> 
> I hope you enjoy; more to come. I'm on tumblr at [insignem](https://insignem.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

Nicolo is no less exhausted than he’d been before sleeping, but as dawn colors the morning sky he commits himself to starting the day. The weariness he feels is like a weight, bearing him down, and he wonders if their miraculous healing comes not without cost.

He’s kicking sand across the remnants of their fire, scattering the coals, when Yusuf returns with a pouch full of nuts. He offers a handful to Nicolo, who cannot help but to look at the green fruit with suspicion.

Yusuf presses strong thumbs into the flesh of one, cracking the shell apart. “I took them from a tree,” he says, reading Nicolo’s hesitancy. “There’s water by it too. Eat. You need it.”

Nicolo sees the fatigue in the man’s face, and knows his own must look similar. He takes the offered fruit, and breaks it open just as Yusuf had. “We call them… _jawza_ ,” Yusuf says, as he chews. “I do not know your word.”

“ _A nôxe_ ,” Nicolo murmurs, then, “Thank you.” It’s one of the few phrases he’s learned in Arabic, and he is gratified at the surprise on Yusuf’s face. There’s even a hint of a smile, perhaps.

“I will have to teach you,” he says. “That accent won’t do.” Definitely amusement. Nicolo offers a small smile of his own.

It’s unexpected, the fragile ease between them. Their people are at war, are they not? He’d seen the fury in Yusuf’s eyes even last night; had felt such hatred for him and for his people so recently. But even as they’d fought, he’d seen Yusuf was honorable. He’d seen him pray last night before they slept. Nicolo has been taught his whole life that these people are as demons, but it is not hard to see the humanity in the man.

A sliver of fear slides between his ribs. Can they still call themselves human?

He distracts himself from this existential dread with a barely murmured prayer. They gather their scant belongings, then head to the water – just a tiny trickle through the rocks, but enough to ease the days-long thirst Nicolo has felt. Combined with the breakfast of walnuts, some measure of energy returns to him, and he is grateful. They have ground to travel.

Yusuf gestures broadly east. “There is a river. Nahr al-Urdun. We can follow it North, towards Damascus.”

“North?” Nicolo has been too occupied with finding shelter, with placing the battlefield far behind him, to think much yet on where they will go. He thinks back to their dream, of the people who might be like them.

As if he can read Nicolo’s thoughts, Yusuf speaks. “The dream,” he says. “You say we are meant to find each other, yes? The land they rode through… it reminds me of land north of here. Certainly not south.”

“So you agree, we should find them?” Nicolo is hopeful. He’s not sure what conviction is driving him – faith, perhaps – but he is certain they are meant to be with each other.

Yusuf scoffs at him, turning away. “If it saves me from only your company, yes.” But there’s no real bite to his words, and Nicolo is struck again by the strangeness of their delicate rapport.

“To the river, then.”

*

Their journey to the river is largely quiet. By unspoken agreement, they skirt clear of farms and small villages, avoiding other humans until they can remove the stain of battle from themselves. Yusuf has many questions, questions that threaten to spill from his lips, but he’s not sure his trader’s grasp of Genoese can bring them adequately to light. Even if it could, he does not think that Nicolo has any more answers than he does.

So he stays silent, and lets himself imagine the waters that await them. They are both filthy; the lingering gore from their many deaths still clings close to their unbroken skin. Yusuf yearns to feel like a person again, and the relief he feels when they finally come upon Nahr al-Urdun soothes his soul. It is a holy river – the site of many miracles. He turns to Nicolo.

“I need to cleanse myself. Would you-” he gestures to indicate turning away.

Nicolo raises an eyebrow. “You are shy?” he asks, looking amused. Yusuf doesn’t quite know the last word, but gets the man’s meaning. He shakes his head.

“I need- it is- between me and Allah.” He gestures between himself and the sky. To his surprise, Nicolo nods gravely.

“I understand. I will keep watch.” He turns his back to the river, hand on his sword hilt. This man, this invader – he will never do what Yusuf expects, will he?

As he submerges himself in the river, he turns his thoughts away from the man on the shore, and turns his heart towards God. The water closing over his head grants him peace; its cool embrace soothes the horror of the battlefield and of his many deaths – the ones he dealt, and the ones he was dealt that did not take. He washes the blood from his skin and the stain from his heart, feeling himself purified physically and spiritually by the act.

When he is done, he steps out of the water. He lets the sun warm his skin as the droplets roll off him, then retrieves his pants. _Stolen from a corpse_ , he remembers. They were the cleanest he could find.

“Nicolo,” he calls. The man turns to look at him

“This river, you should know. Your son of God, the prophet” – he searches is brain, looking for the name in Nicolo’s language. He doesn’t have it, so he tries Greek, then his own. “Iesous. Isa ibn Maryam. Here, he was…” He dips his hands into the river and mimes a baptism. He hardly understands why he is bothering to tell the man, but he feels that if he were unknowingly at a place of such significance, he would want to be told.

Nicolo stares at him, mouth dropped open slightly, then abruptly moves to the river and kneels by the bank, dipping his hands into the waters. Yusuf can see the reverence in the action; can see the awe plain on the man’s face. He murmurs something in what Yusuf recognizes as Latin, and Yusuf turns to give him privacy, returning the favor, his sword close at hand.

*

Nicolo hears his name and turns to see Yusuf standing wreathed in sunlight, water glistening on his broad chest. He stares, mouth suddenly dry. It’s the sight of the expanse perfectly unblemished, he thinks, despite his acute knowledge that he’d run his sword through it, that makes him take too long to realize what Yusuf is saying.

When he does, though, the weight of his words takes Nicolo’s full attention. He kneels by the river with awe. A holy place. He murmurs a prayer, then, seeing that Yusuf has turned, removes his clothing and wades into the river. Eyes shut as he lets the water embrace him, he thinks of his own baptism. From his infancy, he was dedicated to God. Had followed his will as he thought he could best serve him. He came here, to the holy land, because he’d been taught that it was God’s will that they take this land back from the Muslim infidels.

But Yusuf- Yusuf knows Jesus. Yusuf’s faith is evident, his grace apparent. Could he have been so dangerously, grievously wrong? Was it a mistake to come here to fight? Perhaps this resurrection is a curse from God, for his wrongdoing. Or perhaps it is a lesson, and Yusuf is a guide sent to him to straighten his path. He prays as he washes himself.

When he emerges from the river, the last marks of his many deaths erased, he feels changed in a way. Changed by Yusuf’s hand, by the holy water, by the path that’s laid before them. He cannot return to Genoa – not after what’s happened to him. His fate is bound up with Yusuf’s, and with that of the others they seek.

Yusuf, now fully clothed, joins him on the bank after he dresses himself. They fill their waterskins, and Yusuf looks down the river, where it meanders northwards. He says something in Greek, but it’s different than the Greek Nicolo knows. “Hmm?” he asks.

Yusuf looks thoughtful. “Heraclitus said that one cannot step into the same river twice. For the river flows, and changes, and we ourselves flow and change. We are not the same as we once were, and the river is not the same as it once was.”

Nicolo nods in wonder. It’s as though Yusuf knows his mind, though perhaps it should not be so surprising – Yusuf has been through the same world-altering experience that he has.

“I have been changed. By you.”

*

Nicolo gives just a small nod in reaction to Yusuf’s quote, but then his words cut through Yusuf just as swiftly as his blade had. For a moment, Yusuf can only clear his throat, not sure what to say.

“And I by you,” he gets out at last, his voice sounding rough to his ears. From the moment they stopped fighting, Nicolo has seemed certain that they were fated to find each other. He is so casual with these pronouncements, so sure in their truth. It hits him now, more fully than it has yet, that there is no man on earth who knows him more intimately than Nicolo; who knows his body dying and in death, who knows what it’s like to come back into a world different than anything he has ever known. For the first time, he is as sure as Nicolo. They are meant to walk through this world together.

Their eyes hold contact for a long moment, then Yusuf finally tears his away. The intensity he found in Nicolo’s grounded and unsettled him in equal measure, but now without that gaze, it feels almost like a loss.

“I must make my prayers,” he says unsteadily. “Then, we find a town, and supplies, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicolo agrees. He gives a small smile – the only kind Yusuf has seen from him – and Yusuf has the sudden, wild thought that he wants to keep seeing that smile.

It’s too much. He gets up and walks twenty, then thirty paces, putting distance between Nicolo and himself. Around the man, he forgets too easily that they fought so viciously, and for good reason, just days before. Their fates may be intertwined, but they do not have to be friends, Yusuf reminds himself. He tries to push it all from his mind, so that he may make salah with only Allah in his thoughts.

*

Quynh wakes up and rolls over, poking Andromache with delight. Andromache glares at her, but it’s mostly pretense – she doesn’t mind being woken up by Quynh; of all the days she’s risen for, the best have been the ones that started with Quynh’s smile. The remnants of her dream come back to her slowly, and she meets Quynh’s eyes with sudden surprise.

“Oh yes,” Quynh says, grinning broadly. “There was some serious tension, there, wouldn’t you say? And not the I-want-to-kill-you kind. The much more fun kind.” She winks at Andromache, running a finger across her lips.

Andromache snaps her teeth playfully, then asks, “How long do we think til they’re fucking?”

Lykon, who has him arm slung across Andromache’s waist, laughs into the back of her neck. “It’ll take them a few months of pining, at least. Nicolo nearly panicked when he saw Yusuf shirtless. He’s not ready for the full experience.”

“No way,” Quynh says. “That was some delicious eye contact. I give them three weeks, at most.”

Andromache considers. They get different snippets during the dreams, different snatches of sights and thoughts and emotions. She’d felt Nicolo’s unconscious attraction, but she also felt his guilt as he washed himself in the river. “I say it takes longer,” she says finally. “They have a lot to overcome to get there.”

Lykon shakes his head. “Maybe so, Andromache, but they are only men. They will not resist their attraction for long.”

“Very well,” Andromache tells them. “Let’s solidify the bet. Winner has no latrine duty for a month.”

They all agree, and secretly, she hopes that she is the one who’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did way too much research for this chapter, despite how little it comes through in the text! Nahr al-Urdun is the Jordan River. Jesus was baptized there by John the Baptist (go figure!). Yusuf performs ghusl, a full-body cleansing done for ritual purification before prayer, especially needed because he has been in battle and killed and has missed many prayers. Since he is often on the road/sea and in uncertain situations, especially at war, I do not know that he performs salah at the proper times, five times a day, every day, but I do think he prays when he can.
> 
> The words for walnut came from the wikipedia page on Ligurian and a Tunisian Arabic dictionary called Derja Nina (transliterated); I highly doubt they are accurate for 1099, but I wanted to throw a little bit of language difference fun in there. For the most part, when they simply use "English," it should be understood as a language they share in common. Currently that's the Ligurian/Genoese/Zeneize that Nicolo speaks natively and Yusuf has picked up from trading in the Mediterranean (I decided Yusuf is excellent at language, which seems to be a trend picked up generally in fandom, and I appreciate it. But we'll see - Nicolo is no slouch either). Andy, Quynh, and Lykon are predominately speaking Greek with each other, but they may slip into other languages for fun. 
> 
> I hope it doesn't seem like they are liking/trusting each other too quickly. I have read many delightful fics where they hate each other for a long time, and some great posts on tumblr about how long it would take them to trust each other, and I'm not saying it's going to be smooth sailing from here on out. But I thought about making this a true slow burn, enemies to lovers, and the words just wouldn't come. Their inherent kindness and connection with each other kept jumping out - they are just very soft and good and want to like each other, even if they can't quite acknowledge it yet. 
> 
> I would love to hear what you think so far! I'm also on tumblr at [insignem](https://insignem.tumblr.com/) \- come talk to me! Thanks for reading; more to come :)


	3. Chapter 3

They have been walking along the river for nearly an hour, the sun well past its midday peak, and Nicolo has started to wonder if the entire journey will pass in silence. He is hesitant to express himself to Yusuf; guilty that he can only mangle the other man’s tongue in his mouth, and worried that he will use words beyond Yusuf’s (admittedly impressive) grasp of Nicolo’s own.

He looks over at Yusuf, who has not so much as glanced his way since they set off. The man’s face is partially obscured by the scarf he has wrapped around his head, but he can see the sharp tip of his nose; the dark curls of his beard and hair.

He turns his gaze the other way, out at the river as it flows past them, and thinks of what Yusuf had said, in the strange Greek that Nicolo couldn’t quite grasp. The words had been too resonant; too close to his own thoughts. He’s spent his life struggling to make himself understood – his parents had never quite seen him, the priests who had taught him hadn’t quite known what to make of him. But Yusuf, in just a few words, had laid bare the precise feeling that was flooding his veins. He wants to speak with him more, wants to know more of what’s in this man’s head.

*

Yusuf is startled out of his thoughts by the question, spoken softly and slowly in Genoese. “Those words you said, about the river. Heraclitus. Who was he?”

“He was a Greek… philosopher. A thinker.” Yusuf doesn’t quite known the word in Genoese, but it’s similar in Greek and Arabic. Nicolo nods, understanding. “A long time ago.”

“Have you read much of the philosophy of the Greeks?” Nicolo asks him next. The question intrigues him. Nicolo had been well-armored, and mounted on a warhorse. He was likely wealthy, and therefore educated. But Yusuf knows some about the Christians of Europe, and he hasn’t found them to be particularly interested in such works.

“Some,” he says. “But I enjoy reading their stories more. Do you know the Iliad of Homer?” He uses the Greek names.

Nicolo frowns a little. “The Iliad, no. What is that?”

“It is a poem, a very long one. It tells the story of the war between the Greeks and the Trojans.”

Nicolo lights up then. “The Trojan War! Yes, I know the story. I have read it in Vergil.”

Yusuf finds himself smiling as well. He knows of the Aeneid, but he has not read it himself – his travels and language studies have not yet led him to master the tongue of the Romans. “You know Latin well, then?”

Nicolo nods. “Yes, of course. It is the language of the church.” Yusuf feels his mood sour a little, at that, holding down the anger that bubbles inside him when he thinks of the Pope in Rome and the crimes committed in the name of Nicolo’s Latin church.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, then at last, he says, “I would like to know the Aeneid. Perhaps you can share the story with me. We can work on my Genoese.”

He doesn’t look at Nicolo as he says it, but he thinks he hears a tentative pleasure in his voice as the other man says, “I would like that. If you will tell me of the Iliad.”

*

Nicolo feels like a fool. He sees immediately the way that Yusuf tenses when he blithely mentions his church, as if it weren’t the reason for the war they both just left behind. It is a difficult topic to dance around – too entwined in everything of Nicolo’s life for him to truly avoid – but perhaps he could be wiser not to mention it so casually. He fears he’s condemned them back to silence, when, after a long pause, Yusuf finally responds.

Nicolo is relieved, and a little bit pleased, as he responds in kind. He knows only a handful of things about Yusuf at this point: he is from Tunis. He is a trader, well-trained in fighting, and well-versed in the languages of the Mediterranean. That he is well-read and interested in such tales is not a surprise, but it is welcome, and Nicolo is glad to have a conversation topic.

“We can share stories,” Yusuf says. “We will have plenty of time on the road.”

The casual mention of their continuing travel together makes Nicolo’s heart thud for just a moment. He will have much time to know this man.

*

They fall into silence again, and Yusuf squints into the distance to see if any signs of a village are likely to emerge around the next bend of the river. The hills to their left are dotted with pastures and farmland, so surely there will be a town soon.

He’s startled again when Nicolo’s voice comes next in Greek. It’s a bit halting, and not quite the lively modern tongue that Yusuf has spoken in his travels, nor the stately ancient verse he’s studied, but Yusuf understands it well enough. Nicolo asks of the Greek he spoke when he quoted Heraclitus.

He responds in kind. “Heraclitus wrote in much older form of the language. So too did Homer, though even older. I can read it, but it is not really spoken now.”

He casts a glance at Nicolo. The man looks rapt with interest. “Your Greek is not bad, though it is not quite what is spoken now either.”

Nicolo dims, looking embarrassed as he says, “I know the Greek of the Bible; I have had not had much opportunity to practice with modern speakers. But I have had some.”

Yusuf regrets his earlier reaction to Nicolo’s mention of the church. It is not a topic they can easily avoid, and now the man seems hesitant to make reference to his religion. It’s not the religion that frustrates Yusuf, but the invasion carried out in the name of it, and he finds it is already all too easy to separate Nicolo from the act, despite the fact that he was very much a part of it.

In an effort to put the man more at ease with talk of his faith, he asks, “So, Latin and Biblical Greek. You are a scholar of Christianity? Or is it common for all Christians to know these languages?”

Nicolo shakes his head. He does not look at Yusuf as he says, very quietly, “No, not common. I was a priest.”

 _A priest._ Yusuf, normally quick with a turn of phrase, can hardly think of how to reply. He has a feeling he will be getting used to such a sensation around Nicolo, but he latches onto one of the words – Nicolo had given past tense of the Greek verb, and Yusuf wonders if it was intentional or a slip of the language.

“Was?” he asks. “You are no longer?”

Nicolo still does not look at him. “I left the priesthood, yes.” He does not elaborate further, and Yusuf choses not to press him.

*

Frustrated, Nicolo wants to change the subject. He is glad they can converse now in Genoese and in Greek; glad they have topics to discuss other than his reasons for ending up in Jerusalem. He wishes to steer the conversation back out of that territory, and it wouldn’t be difficult – he has what feels like a hundred questions for Yusuf. He doesn’t know this area. He doesn’t know how likely he is to be hated for his fair skin and pale eyes when they reach a town. He has nothing beyond the clothing and light armor he wears and the few weapons he carries; he cannot imagine how they will trade for the supplies they need, let alone horses. He can barely speak but a few words in the local language.

“I have little knowledge of Arabic. But I would like to learn, so that we may speak in your tongue as well.”

Yusuf laughs, and though Nicolo knows it must be a little bit mocking, he is glad to hear the sound. “I haven’t spoken the Arabic of my people since I last left home. Would you like to learn the Darija spoken in my city? Or the Arabic of this region we travel? Or the Arabic of our written texts?”

 _Oh._ How many languages does Yusuf know? Far more than Nicolo; that much is clear. “I will learn whatever you will teach me,” Nicolo says honestly.

He can’t quite read the look that Yusuf gives him in response. “Very well,” he says. “We can start with basic words. I will point things out.”

Nicolo suddenly hears a cry. A boy, who from the looks of him has been tending to the sheep in the surrounding fields, runs down the hill towards them.

Yusuf smiles and waves, speaking a greeting that Nicolo catches a word or two of. The boy reaches them, and he and Yusuf converse for a moment. Nicolo sees the boy peering at him wide-eyed, eyes going to the sword he wears at his waist, and he tries to make himself look as non-threatening as possible. Yusuf gestures towards him and Nicolo smiles at the boy, but he shrinks back further.

Finally, Yusuf thanks the boy, who heads back off into the fields. Yusuf turns to Nicolo. “His town is not far. They have been awaiting news of the battle – many of their men fought. I told him we were not there, that we are travelers, and only carry the swords for protection. He told me we could go to his farm and ask for his mother.” His mouth twists wryly. “As long as we vow not to hurt her.”

“He is brave to say that,” Nicolo says. His skin prickles. He has steadfastly avoided the thought of the soldiers that he fought having families awaiting them. God had been guiding his hand, had he not? But with the boy before him, it is harder to see that so clearly.

They start to see buildings in the distance as they walk, and more people working in the fields as they draw nearer. Nicolo feels the eyes upon them acutely, and is not surprised when Yusuf grips his elbow and speaks quietly. “Pull that up and keep your head down,” he says, gesturing to the head scarf that Nicolo wears to block some of the hot sun.

Nicolo does so. He is not worried he is in any true danger, but he does not want to raise his weapon against these people should they attack. He is content to follow Yusuf’s lead. It is odd, to place his trust in him, but he does.

They reach a farmhouse that must match a description from the boy, for Yusuf confidently knocks upon the door. A voice calls from the garden, and then a woman appears. She looks upon them warily, but Nicolo can also see the curiosity in her eyes. Yusuf quickly starts speaking, and the woman relaxes, nodding and starting to smile. Nicolo can see why – even without understanding his words, he can tell that Yusuf is charming and friendly, and that the woman is reassured.

She disappears into the house, and returns a few minutes later with a tray of food for them. Yusuf thanks her, and Nicolo attempts to respond in kind, though from Yusuf’s wince he can see his pronunciation was no better than it had been that morning. The woman does not look pleased – she looks harshly at Nicolo, then speaks rapidly with Yusuf for a few more minutes.

Once she goes back to the garden, Yusuf, already with a mouthful, raises an eyebrow at him and swallows. “It is as the boy said. Her husband was fighting to defend Jerusalem. Many men of this town were. None have returned yet, and they have heard no news since the battle began.”  
  
Nicolo starts to ask a question, but Yusuf cuts him off. “I have told her nothing. Only the same lie I told the boy. We will not stay long. She gave me the names of some merchants in town. We will supply ourselves and move on.”

“And how will we pay for these supplies?” Nicolo asks, skeptical.

Yusuf draws a knife from his boot, then holds it out hilt-first to Nicolo. He recognizes it – it had been plunged into his body many times, and had at last been withdrawn by Yusuf’s own hand when they finally ceased their fighting. Now, looking closer, he sees the intricate craftsmanship of the blade, and the gems embedded in the hilt.

“I will trade this,” he says, with a shrug. “It is worth far more than what we need, but if can get two good horses out of it, I will consider it a fair exchange.”

The weapon is a thing of beauty, and Nicolo can tell there is something weightier behind Yusuf’s words than his casual tone conveys. “I cannot- this has much value to you, does it not? I have no items of my own to offer. It is not right.”

Yusuf twists the knife in his hands. “It had value in a life that is not mine anymore. Now I have a more practical need for it.” He puts it away, and does not elaborate further. They go back to eating in silence.

*

As they finish their meal, Yusuf turns Nicolo’s words over in his head. He doesn’t feel that he’d expressed himself well – the Genoese still feels strange on his tongue. He’s used to using it for transactions and trade, not for conversations of greater emotional heft. But Nicolo had understood the subtext that he had not spoken. It is true that the knife carries sentimental value – his father had given it to him when he left for his first trading trip by sea, symbolic of him taking up the mantle of the family business. But his father is gone now, and it’s not like the knife is a family heirloom. Just a gift. He doesn’t need objects to remember his father by, and besides, as he’d told Nicolo – that life is no longer his.

Nicolo’s astuteness surprises him, though. That he would notice so quickly that it is not such a simple thing, to part with the knife. That he would feel guilty at not having anything to offer himself.

Unsettled once again by the kindness Nicolo shows, Yusuf reminds himself of the viciousness with which the man had fought on the battlefield. He thinks of the people he’d met in Jerusalem, the young boys like the one who had greeted them and the scared mothers, those who had been forced from their homes by the path of the marching Christian army, those who’d sought refuge within the walls of a city that has now fallen. The only reason this village is as-yet untouched is because it doesn’t lie on the path from Jaffa to Jerusalem, and still the lives of its people have been torn by the Franks’ invasion.

Anger flares in him as he watches Nicolo chewing thoughtlessly on the food so carefully farmed by the people from the land he came to conquer. Unable to help himself, Yusuf snaps, “You know, your army would have made these people refugees. They are only here because they had the luck of not being in your path.” It’s not elegant, but there’s venom in his words, and Nicolo hears it.

The man’s icy blue eyes meet his, and there’s steel in them. His voice is cold as he says, “And what of the Christians expelled from the city by your Muslim governor before the battle? Pushed from their homes and left to die in the desert?”

Yusuf’s stomach clenches in fury. “And whose fault was that? How could they be trusted when the Christians were marching to take the city?”

He’s switched to Greek, he realizes distantly, better able to express the renewed hatred he feels in a tongue that he hasn’t come to associate with Nicolo. They’re both on their feet now, hands not quite on hilts but soon to be there. The fruitlessness of coming to blows infuriates Yusuf all over again. Why has he been cursed to walk the world with this man, his enemy, unable to strike him down? He is a demon sent to torment Yusuf, surely, to beguile him with false kindness and deceptive decency, to trick Yusuf into forgetting his true nature. He will not let himself be taken in by such deceit going forward, he resolves. He will continue to travel with the man, but he will not trust him.

He deliberately lets his arm hang freely at his side again, deescalating. Nicolo does the same, but continues to hold tension in his frame. Yusuf jerks his head, jaw clenched. “Let’s be going. I do not want to stay here any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Andy et al in this chapter, because there hasn't been another sleep yet! Not much happening here, just some conversations I wanted them to have... and thus my classics major self-indulgence sets in. 
> 
> I'm basing their respective knowledge of Homer and Vergil off a few things of which I have only vague knowledge: Many works of Greek literature were studied in the House of Wisdom in Baghdad; so it is likely that an educated Muslim like Yusuf would have been familiar with Homer. It doesn't seem a stretch to me that he would have studied ancient Greek and would also speak Medieval Greek fluently, as someone who traveled and traded around the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, medieval Christians were big fans of the Aeneid (something something interpreting Vergil's prophecies to be about the coming of Christ), and it was likely part of the Latin-Christian education that Nicolo would have had. As far as I can tell, the Iliad was not widely read among European Christians until the Renaissance, so Nicolo likely doesn't know it, though he would be familiar with the Trojan War because of the Aeneid. Whoo! I hope that all makes sense. 
> 
> A further note on languages/culture... based on my limited research, I think the villages in the land surrounding Jerusalem would have been predominately Arabic-speaking and Muslim in 1099, but it was difficult (for me) to find information on what these villages would have been like culturally, so I'm keeping it fairly vague and hoping I don't portray anything with grotesque inaccuracy. I do think it's accurate that there would have pastoral/farming towns along the Jordan River, and they wouldn't have been on the Crusaders' path to Jerusalem. I'm not sure the extent to which the people there would have fought for Jerusalem, given that the city's leadership had only recently changed hands from the Seljuks back to the Fatimids prior to the Siege of Jerusalem, which I imagine would complicate feelings of unity or loyalty in the area... I wish I knew 30000% more about this, and welcome anyone with more information! 
> 
> As always, I would be very grateful to hear any thoughts you might have to share! I'm also on tumblr at [insignem](https://insignem.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very much enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it! Warnings for graphic violence come into play here.

Nicolo stays silent as Yusuf masterfully negotiates for supplies. He listens intently, trying to catch a word he recognizes amidst the rapid snatches of back-and-forth, but mostly he just watches. Just as Yusuf had impressed him with his ability to easily charm the woman who’d fed them, so too Nicolo appreciates the ease with which he steadily accumulates the items they need.

The pile grows, and Nicolo sets himself to arranging them neatly into the two packs they’d procured. Bedrolls, dried meats wrapped in cloth and other food items, a few sturdy pieces of clothing, and more that continues coming, as various members of the town come forward to offer goods.

It doesn’t escape Nicolo’s notice as he works that the people he sees are almost all women, older men, and children. They are eager to trade with Yusuf, whose knife has now become many pieces of coin, but there is a tension to their bearing, and Nicolo knows they await news from Jerusalem. He keeps his head down, and fights down the guilt that lies thick in his throat.

*

Yusuf pointedly avoids acknowledging Nicolo as he makes his trades. He notices in his periphery that the man has started packing their supplies, and is moderately grateful, not least because it gives the surrounding people the impression that Nicolo serves him. Nicolo is not unassuming, but people don’t notice servants, and Yusuf isn’t eager to test whether anyone here might pose a danger to them.

The shopkeeper he speaks with gives him directions to the stables, and he finally turns to Nicolo. “Wait here with our things,” he says. “I’ll be back with horses soon.”

The stable master is not eager to part with his finest mounts, but Yusuf’s coin and easy way with the horses smoothes the deal. The colts are young – not yet trained enough for the battlefield, and thus had remained behind when the men had gone to fight – but they’ll do nicely, and Yusuf is pleased. He has just completed his purchase of gear when a commotion stirs the courtyard, as words start flying in the streets and people begin to hurry by the stables, towards the square from which Yusuf had come. He and the stable master quickly saddle up the two horses, and ride back to the town center.

When they arrive, he finds himself immediately scanning for Nicolo. He spots him almost before he processes the rest of the scene, meeting those startling eyes at once; only then does he realize that the man they belong to is on his knees in the dead center of the square, each arm held tightly in the grip of two men whose clothing declares them soldiers of the caliphate.

*

It all happens so quickly. One moment Nicolo is kneeling in the market square, neatly fitting the last packets of food into their packs; the next a great thundering of hooves startles him into looking up as two soldiers on horseback ride into the town. A crowd of people starts to gather, drawn to hear the news, but Nicolo is quite conspicuous where he crouches, and he can see the moment their eyes fall upon him. His own eyes are wide, surprised by the sudden disturbance, and one of the soldiers gestures wildly towards them, speaking rapidly to the other.

With a flurry of movement, they each leap down from their horses and seize one of his arms. He’s drawn up between them before he can even reach for his sword; hauled from his knees and dragged to the center of the square.

Up close, he realizes he recognizes one of the soldiers as a messenger of the caliphate who came to the Genoese tents days before the battle. Even if he could speak their language, there is no use protesting. No doubt this man remembers seeing him as well, and knows him to be a member of the Christian army.

 _Was,_ Nicolo thinks desperately. He _was_ a member of the Christian army. But just for a moment, he is oddly comforted to realize that he is still recognizable as the man he was before.

Their grip is blisteringly tight on his upper arms, and he’s not sure he can slip free. He twists his fingers, groping for his sword hilt, but his arm is yanked back. His shoulder screams. The man at his right wrenches his sword from his belt and throws it into the dirt. He spits after it.

Will they kill him here in the square? Will others witness his unnatural rebirth? Will he even live again, if killed by a hand other than Yusuf’s? His pulse shudders in his ears as he tries to think of something he can do. They force him down to his knees, speaking angrily. A hand grips his hair brutally tight, holding his head up, forcing him to look upon the gathered crowd.

It is then that he sees Yusuf fly into the center on horseback, drawing up short, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene.

Their eyes meet, and Nicolo holds onto the contact like a lifeline. He doesn’t expect that Yusuf will risk anything to help him - but perhaps he will act to avoid the exposure of their shared secret. Yusuf dismounts, but does not move towards him. Nicolo tries to force down his fear as the messengers begin to address the crowd.

Nicolo strains for their meaning, but it does not take long to realize that he doesn’t need to understand the language to know the truth of what is being told. He doesn’t need the words to hear the anger and pain in their voices. He doesn’t need them to see the faces of the townspeople crumple in anguish, to hear the sobs that rend the air.

He doesn’t need them to see the subtle concern in Yusuf’s gaze, still fixed on his, transform to wild, terrible rage.

In that moment, he knows he is well and truly alone. Nicolo dimly registers that the soldiers are done speaking, but he feels like he is floating on a ship lost from anchor, unmoored without the tether that had bound him to Yusuf and Yusuf to him.

A boot slams into his back, shoving him onto his stomach in the dirt. His hands are still held behind him. He doesn’t struggle. Why should he? He is the cause of the all the suffering before him. The agonized wails are his doing. He turns his head just enough to see Yusuf again in the crowd, his face marred with grief and fury.

Yusuf meets his eyes one last time, then very deliberately turns away. Nicolo’s wrists are roughly tied with rope. He’s dragged back to his feet. Because he is a coward, he keeps his head low, unwilling to meet the eyes of any of the people still gathered. Unwilling to see the back of the only person he had in the world turned against him.

*

When the messengers start to speak, Yusuf’s blood first runs ice cold. It was one thing to be there, to fight even as he knew the city was falling. It is another to hear the details of the outcome he’d abandoned, to hear of untellable numbers cut down in the battle. But then the soldiers’ voices start to falter as they tell of the aftermath; of the horror and slaughter inside the city walls, and Yusuf’s blood turns from ice to searing, blistering heat. Fire races through his veins and burns his throat raw. Women around him are moaning, desperately asking after husbands and sons. There’s buzzing in his ears. _Dead. All dead._ He sees the little girl who’d shyly thanked him for bread on one of those last mornings, murdered in the streets of the holy city she’d sought refuge in.

He remembers Nicolo before him, sword raised and face warped in an awful rage. He imagines Nicolo, cutting down innocents, party to the massacre committed by his people. He sees the real Nicolo lying in the dust of the square, then twisting to look at Yusuf. His face is pale. He does not struggle. Yusuf cannot bear those eyes. He turns away.

His stomach is a ball of flame. He turns to the stable master who came with him, his face just as stricken as he imagines his own to be, and numbly takes the reins of the second horse. They do not exchange words. There is nothing that can be said.

The people crowded in the square begin to leave. Many walk with their arms wrapped around each other; many cry as they go. Yusuf’s hands tremble with anger as he lifts the two identical packs Nicolo had so neatly put together. He holds onto the reins of both horses. He does not want to look, but he cannot help himself. Nicolo is still held between the soldiers, on his feet now, hands bound. His head hangs low, and Yusuf cannot see his face for the hair that swings in front of it. His shoulders are hunched. He does not resist as the soldiers lead him to their horses.

Yusuf hangs back. The soldiers had spoken of Muslim forces gathering at Ascalon to mount a counterattack, had urged anyone who was able to fight to go. He could go. He has two good horses now. He could find a companion and ride to join the army there. Or he could ride north on his own, to find the people from his dreams. He doesn’t need to travel with Nicolo to do so.

He watches as the soldiers leave from the far end of the square, riding hard down the road that leads out of town. The bound man is thrown ignominiously across one of the horses. What will they do with him? _They’ll kill him._ He knows. Nicolo has no value as a prisoner. They will get him out of the town and execute him, leaving his body for the carrion birds. Or so they think.

Nicolo’s sword is still lying on the ground. Yusuf picks it up, staring at the sharp edge of the blade. A sudden thought freezes him. He knows very little of how this strange power of theirs works. He only knows for certain that he and Nicolo resurrect when killed by the other’s hand. He cannot be sure that the man will live if slain by another. Fear floods him, deeply unwanted, but fear all the same. If Nicolo is lost, he is truly alone. He sees the man’s face again, pale and sorrowful; sees again the way he did not resist. Remembers the way he’d lain passively beneath Yusuf’s own knife, just the night before.

Yusuf swears, and slams his fist into the wall. His knuckles split open, and the shock of the pain snaps him into action. He pulls rope from the packs, using it to fix the bags to the horse that would have been Nicolo’s, and to tie a guide line through its bridle. Then he mounts his own horse and rides swiftly after the soldiers, no longer noticing the pain in his hand.

*

Nicolo’s body aches by the time the soldiers come to a halt. He lifts his head, but he can no longer see the town in the distance, nor the river they had followed to reach it. The sun has just fallen below the horizon, and the sky is streaked with the last color of the day. He’s hauled roughly off the back of the horse, and thrown down into the dust once again.

He tries to sit up, but a boot under his chin knocks him back down. He coughs as blood coats his throat. One of the soldiers grasps his hair again, and pulls him up to face the other – the man who he’d seen before the battle. This man draws his knife.

Nicolo does the only thing he knows to do: he prays. He prays to his God, asking for forgiveness, for the sins committed in his name. Distantly, he knows the man is speaking to him, but the words are lost. His focus blurs, and as he prays for forgiveness, it is Yusuf he is seeing – Yusuf’s eyes as they crinkle in surprised amusement at something Nicolo has said; Yusuf’s face turning away from his in anger and hurt that cut deeper than his blade ever did.

Not for the first time, Nicolo dies with only Yusuf’s face in his mind.

*

Yusuf sees the soldiers halt just ahead of him, and quickly ties his horses to a tree, creeping closer as quickly and quietly as he can. His heart thuds too loud in his ears, but he trusts the softness of his footfalls as he darts behind the tree nearest to the trio of men.

He peers around it, hand already on the hilt of his sword, just in time to see Nicolo’s throat cut clean through by one of the soldiers.

Yusuf shoves a hand to his mouth to hold back the cry that rises unbidden. The soldiers don’t stay long. They leave Nicolo’s body bleeding in the dust, mount their horses, and ride away.

Yusuf waits just long enough for their hoof beats to fade into the distance, then runs to Nicolo. He’s seen the man dead before, many times, but this time the wrongness of it makes it so much worse. Nicolo is only meant to die by his hand, was made to die and be reborn by Yusuf’s blade. Anything else cannot be right.

There’s so much blood. Yusuf cannot see if the wound is healing. He kneels by the body, hands hovering uselessly, not knowing what to do. Panic rises in him. Is this it? Has he been left to walk through the world all on his own?

He thinks again to the people in their dreams, but the thought is not soothing. It is Nicolo that he wants by his side; Nicolo, who seems to see him more clearly than anyone he’s met ever has; Nicolo, who _is_ kind, despite what Yusuf wants to believe; Nicolo, who has been part of something awful but for whom Yusuf cannot bring himself to fully blame.

His earlier anger is nearly forgotten. If Nicolo lives, he can atone for what he’s done. He just needs to _live_.

Nicolo gasps upright, and Yusuf falls back, shock and relief coursing through him as the man’s hands come up to grope at his bloody throat.

He laughs, amazed, and the sound brings Nicolo’s wild eyes to his. They immediately skirt away, and Yusuf sees the shame that fills them. He clears his throat.

“I have your sword, and your horse. If you’ll ride with me.”

Nicolo – living, breathing, unhurt Nicolo – nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Echoing my previous note on the last chapter about my depiction of the town and lack of historical knowledge/accuracy, and my desire for more information should anyone wish to share.  
> -The Muslim forces did regroup in Ascalon to mount a counterattack, but failed. I don't know if messengers would have been riding through the countryside like this, but it suited my purposes for the story.  
> -Also echoing my note on Siege: The Siege of Jerusalem in 1099 ended with Crusader army committing a horrific slaughter of the city's inhabitants. I had Yusuf and Nicolo leave Jerusalem without being aware of this, but here Yusuf learns about the massacre from the messengers. Nicolo of course gets an idea of what happened, but they will have a lot of talking and reckoning to do coming up. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear any thoughts you have! I'm also [@insignem](https://insignem.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the incredibly long delay; I hope the delays won't be quite so long going forward, but I cannot promise... there's been a combination of real life busyness and a bit of reluctance to write this chapter, as I'm not sure my wikipedia-levels of knowledge are enough to treat these topics with the justice and nuance they deserve. But, I do really want to write this story, and I'm grateful for all those on tumblr who have shared resources and guidance on writing this era!

They put distance between themselves and the town, riding for a campsite where they can safely spend the night. Nicolo can see that Yusuf’s anger is still there, despite the relief he’d seen on the man’s face when he’d come back. Each time he dies, Yusuf’s face is there in his mind. Each time he is reborn, Yusuf is there before him. It is a strange thing.

“I am surprised that you came for me,” he near-whispers, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over their horses’ hooves on the ground. His throat is still raw, and it hurts a little to speak. But more than that, he is afraid that Yusuf will not reply. The man has not looked at him since they left his death site behind.

After a long moment, though, Yusuf does respond. “I am too,” Yusuf says in Greek. He pauses, and it seems to Nicolo that he is choosing his words carefully. “It occurred to me that I did not know much about this… gift of ours. I did not know if we would only come back when killed by each other. I did not want to have to test this on my own, so it was… helpful to see what would happen to you.”

Nicolo takes this in. It is logical; there is still much they do not know. He has many questions himself. But he sees out of the corner of his eye that Yusuf has finally turned towards him, and he is startled to see the faint smirk on the man’s lips.

“I am almost… _offended_ that what we have is not only between us.”

There is humor in Yusuf’s tone, and a touch of possessiveness that makes Nicolo feel oddly warm. He does not disagree. It had felt like something almost private between them, stemming from the thread of fate that surely ties them together. It is strange to think they can heal from mortal wounds dealt by just anyone.

Yusuf looks away again. “But, I am also… glad.”

Nicolo holds back the small bud of relief he feels that Yusuf has not yet turned his back on him. “Glad you do not have to ride alone.”

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees. “I do still want to hear of the Aeneid.”

*

They find a spot to make camp as the last traces of light fade from the sky. Sitting across the fire from Nicolo, Yusuf sees the horror of the dried blood at his throat, spilling down his shirt, gaping dark in the firelight. He shudders at it, despite knowing he has caused this man many brutal, bloody wounds himself.

“We must find the river again tomorrow. You can wash, and we can make use of the new clothes we’ve purchased.”

“ _You_ purchased,” Nicolo says quietly, and Yusuf knows he still feels guilt over not paying his share.

“It is alright. You will make it up to me, I’m sure.”

They fall silent again, then Nicolo, his voice a raw whisper, asks, “Yusuf. Will you tell me what the soldiers said?”

Yusuf flinches. The ease they had as they set up camp together evaporates. He feels his anger return, simmering in his gut as he thinks back to the words of the messengers. He knows himself: his emotions flare hot and wild when provoked, but they cool once he’s had a chance to think. He reminds himself to think, then, to remain rational.

Nicolo’s voice breaks the silence again. “I saw your face; you would have left me.” He pauses, and Yusuf hears him draw in a breath. “I saw their faces.” His voice cracks a little, and in the flickering firelight, Yusuf can see the same pained sorrow that his face wore back in the square.

He does not wish to recount the horror he had heard. But Nicolo should know. He begins to speak.

*

The halting, haunting way that Yusuf recounts the soldiers’ message has Nicolo trembling, but he does his best not to make a sound as Yusuf tells of the massacre of innocents, of streets running red with blood. Of the Christian soldiers slaughtering even those who’d sought refuge in the holy city’s holiest temples.

Horror and shame fill him. He remembers his foolish hope that his army would show mercy, when he and Yusuf had first exchanged words with the city smoking in the distance, and begins to weep openly.

Yusuf’s voice is thick with tears as he finishes speaking. Nicolo struggles to think of what to say. Anything he can offer seems like a pitiful, ignoble excuse.

“You should have left me.” His voice sounds hollow, even to his own ears.

Yusuf gazes at him across the fire, his dark eyes inscrutable. “Perhaps I should have.”

“I would understand if you wished us to part ways,” Nicolo says down to his hands, unable to hold eye contact with Yusuf.

Yusuf barks a laugh. It is not a warm sound. “I think it is too late for that, don’t you? My _fate_ -” he says the word disdainfully – “has been bound up with that of a Christian invader, part of the very army that laid waste to the city I died to defend.” His voice shakes, and Nicolo can hear the rage now. “Part of the very army that _murdered the innocents_ I died to defend.”

Nicolo flinches, but he knows it is deserved. “I did not- That is- I would not have- Please, Yusuf, you must believe that I would not have killed those people. That is not why I came to the holy land”

Yusuf is on his feet now, and Nicolo is suddenly glad that the fire is between them. “You came to the holy land to capture Jerusalem, _Nicolo,_ ” he snarls. "Do you really think you would have stopped when all of your comrades carried out what they came to do? When they took to the streets to slaughter every person they could find who was not Christian? When they committed such acts in the name of _God_?”

His words are choppy now, slipping into Greek and even Arabic here and there as he struggles to convey his meaning in Nicolo’s tongue, but it is enough that Nicolo understands all of it, understands the meaning, like another dagger sliding between his ribs.

He is standing too, hardly aware that he’d moved, grief and anger filling the space between him and Yusuf. “I did not come here to hurt innocents, I swear it. I thought I came to free the Christians who were suffering in the holy land. I came-” he breaks off, knowing it is not an excuse, but unable to keep himself from saying it, “I came because I thought my dreams were leading me here. And they were. They were leading me to you.”

Yusuf deflates. He slumps back down, sitting once more, and Nicolo joins him, staring into the flames. He continues, his voice quite a bit softer, “I know it is not an excuse. I know it can never be excused. But I thought I was doing what was right.”

“And yet so many like you also believed they were carrying out God’s will when they slaughtered thousands,” Yusuf reminds him, and Nicolo meets his eyes, glowing the firelight.

“They were wrong.” His eyes burn with fresh tears. “I have been taught my entire life to hate your people,” Nicolo says, sick with shame but willing himself not to look away. “I have known you for barely a day and I can see that I was wrong.”

He wants to explain himself better. He has so many thoughts he wants to share, but they are all jumbled up in his brain, caught in the exhaustion of his recent death and resurrection on top of so many on the battlefield. He tries his best, hoping this is not his last chance.

“Seeing the people of that village– I told myself when the fighting began that I was only killing soldiers who were hurting the good Christians of the holy land. I did not wish to think that they might have families. I did not wish to see them as people. I was a coward.” No, that wasn’t quite right. “I _am_ a coward. And I do not deserve your companionship. But I would be grateful for it, if you can bear mine.

*

Yusuf is exhausted. His weariness is bone-deep, the toll of their days-long fight still wearing on him, and the last burst energy he’d had while pursuing Nicolo’s captors has left him. His anger has drained out of him, and he knows it is not gone, but he cannot manage any more of this conversation until he has let his brain rest for a long time.

“We should sleep,” is all he says.

They make their beds across from each other, on opposite sides of the banked fire. Yusuf blearily cleanses himself and makes his evening prayer. When he at last crawls into his new bedroll, he decides immediately that it might just be the most comfortable surface he’s ever had to rest on. Sleep pulls him in quickly, but then Nicolo’s voice drifts towards him one last time, quiet in the darkness. He speaks in Greek, so his meaning is utterly clear.

“Do you hate me?” he asks softly.

Yusuf waits a long time before answering. He searches himself, thinking back to his reaction in the town square, towards the rage that he had felt towards Nicolo and his people. He thinks to his cold eyes across the fire as he recounted what had happened in the city – but they had not looked cold. They had looked anguished and furious and devastated. It has been such a short time, but he has come to know this man. And he does believe that he would not have murdered the people of Jerusalem, had things gone differently.

“No, I don’t,” he says, and it’s the truth.

*

Andromache wakes with her hands grasping her throat, leaning over to cough into the dirt. The others stir awake beside her. “I died- Nicolo died,” she says, breathing heavily.

“Ugh,” Quynh groans. “I thought we were past that.”

“No…” Andromache frowns. “No, they were definitely arguing, but it wasn’t Yusuf that killed him.”

“I didn’t see much of anything interesting,” Quynh says with a little shrug. “Just chatting and bartering for supplies.”

Lykon shudders. “I got flashes of what was inside Yusuf’s head. After Jerusalem fell, the Christians slaughtered the inhabitants of the city.”

Andromache pales at that, regret flooding her. She hadn’t wanted them to get involved with a religious conflict that mattered little to any of them, but they’d made a point to protect innocents whenever and wherever they could.

She feels the press of Quynh’s hand, then the curl of their little fingers together. She knows Quynh is thinking the same thing.

“I could taste Nicolo’s guilt,” she says, the lingering feeling of his own regret tied up with hers. “He is ashamed for his part in it.”

Lykon frowns a little, an unusual expression for his often good-natured countenance. “And Yusuf has chosen to stay with him. That is good, at least. It will be harder to track them down if they part ways, and it will be a long eternity if the two are at odds with each other.”

His frown turns to a smirk. “Though, I think this bodes well for my timeline on that bet of ours.”

Quynh rolls her eyes and pushes him over. Andy just shakes her head and sets about packing up their camp. She’s been alive for a very long time, and she has not always taken the right path. She has not always helped those she could have or should have helped. She has been wrong about many, many things. She hopes that she is not wrong about their new brother: that despite the choices he had made, he understands that he was wrong. That he wants to do good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not worry, there will be more conversation on this between Nicolo and Yusuf. I've already written a lot of it, but there's lots of work to do. Please let me know any thoughts you have! Thank you <3


End file.
